


a warm winter day

by just_anothercrazyfangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Kisses, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary Morstan is Not Nice, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, SO MUCH FLUFF, Scar Worship, Soft John Watson, i think i'm physically incapable of writing something without fluff in it, two soft boys in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 16:21:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17584241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_anothercrazyfangirl/pseuds/just_anothercrazyfangirl
Summary: It’s dreadfully hot in the flat, despite it being the middle of January. The radiator has been broken in 221B for almost two days; no one’s been able to come out to fix it due to the copious amounts of snow on the road. So, the three of them have just been forced to. . .  burn, essentially. In winter.~ • ~I don't know how to summarize it, other than that brief blurb, but please read it. I promise it's better than what the summary says.





	a warm winter day

**Author's Note:**

> hello, my lovely readers! i've been working on this for like... two days to distract myself from my actual responsibilities but. not important.  
> i hope you enjoy it! kinda fluffy, kinda angsty, but i can't not give my children a happy ending so. here we are.  
> also this is very short. but. again. school.

It’s dreadfully hot in the flat, despite it being the middle of January. The radiator has been broken in 221B for almost two days; no one’s been able to come out to fix it due to the copious amounts of snow on the road. So, the three of them have just been forced to. . .  burn, essentially. In winter.

John is working. He claims he needs to pick up more shifts at the surgery, regardless of the heavy sleet and rain outside. Sherlock, as a result, is bored. He hasn’t had a proper case in nine (nine!) days; John told him amusedly one day as he trudged through the flat that sometimes serial killers got cold. That sometimes, people didn’t want to haul a dead body to a remote location they couldn’t be tracked to in -2° weather.

 _Regardless,_ Sherlock thinks, _it’s bloody unfair._

When John works and he doesn’t have a case, Sherlock usually takes Rosie somewhere; goes about his day with her little fingers clutched in his hair. But she’s downstairs with Mrs. Hudson (who’s radiator isn’t broken, luckily), has been since the temperature spiked in the flat. He’s completely, utterly alone.

So here he is: standing by the window, staring out at the white, ever pacing blur of London, thinking. Yet, he feels the edges of his thoughts grow fuzzy, and with frustration, he throws off his shirt and dressing gown, letting them crumple to the floor as he resumes his position. It helps, a tad, but not much. He’s considering opening the window for a brief moment, regardless of the rain outside, just for a brief moment of cool relief.

Sherlock doesn’t hear the door open downstairs, doesn’t hear soft coos from Rosie as John stops briefly by Mrs. Hudson’s flat to check up on her, doesn’t hear the familiar trudge of his steps up the seventeen stairs leading into the sitting room.

“God, coming in from outside into here makes the flat feel even warmer,” he briefly registers John’s voice from the kitchen, deciding to ignore him and instead, crack open the window. Sherlock’s skin tingles delightfully at the rush of cool air.

“You know, once in a while, you could help me put away the. . .” John trails off, and he’s closer now, in the sitting room. Sherlock turns to respond to him; the words die away fast at the look on the shorter man’s face.

A mix of anger, hurt, concern and fear color John’s face and Sherlock is left to wonder for just a second what he’s done that could have caused that look.

Then it clicks.

Hot flat. No shirt. Back exposed. _Scars._

A hot wave of shame rolls through him and he stutters a breath at the impact.

“Sherlock.” Steady, feigned calm, underlying anger. “What. Are those?”

He debates which is worse: letting John see his face, or letting John see his back. He turns around.

“Scars.” Sherlock fights to keep his voice impassive.

“I— yes, but—” John breathes deeply, and suddenly he’s closer; Sherlock can feel his presence directly behind him.

“The two years I was. . .  gone, I took down Moriarty’s network, as much of it as I could manage.” He shrugs, feigning indifference, yet clenching his jaw against tears. “Minor casualties.”

“Minor casualties.” John whispers behind him, and suddenly there’s a hand at his nape. “May I?”

All Sherlock can manage is a nod and the hand moves slowly down his back. Another joins it after a second on his side and they sweep along the raised marks. Some of them are more disfigured than others; they weren’t given a proper chance to heal.

“How long after these were healed did you come back to London?”

Sherlock blinks rapidly. He _does not_ want to answer that question, because if he does, John’s going to realize—

He’s been silent too long to form a logical lie, and he curses himself for his stupidity when John tentatively says, “Sherlock?”

“Some of them weren’t.” It’s quiet, so quiet that John could ignore it if he wanted to. (Sherlock knows he won’t.)

“What do you— some of them weren’t?”

A minute shake of his head, and the hand stops. “You. . .  but you came. . . to the restaurant,”

Sherlock can’t speak, couldn’t if he wanted to given the lump in his throat, so he nods.

“But I. . .  you. . . I hurt you, that night,” John’s arms fall to his sides as the information sinks in. Sherlock steps away, locks the window. He feels cold, brittle. “Why did you let me hit you, Sherlock? You were— you were—”

“You needed to let out your emotions. It was a normal reaction. I was dead for two years, then I wasn’t. You had the right to be angry and that was how you needed to express yourself.” He surprises himself with how steady, how monotone the words come out.

“That’s not a normal reaction! To— to attack you like that? To beat you and leave you and not. . .  not think about what had happened? To you?”

Sherlock can’t form the words he wants to say, so he just stands in silence.

“Why? Why did you. . . ?”

“Because you needed to.”

John barks out an unnatural laugh, purses his lips in that way that means he’s deeply upset. He moves to the couch robotically, sits down and stares at the fireplace. Sherlock follows him subconsciously, hovering a few feet in front of him. “I’m— so. I’m so sorry, Sherlock,”

“Like I said: you needed to.”

John violently shakes his head, “No. No, Sherlock, I can’t— come here,” Warm hands circle thin wrists and Sherlock is pulled into the V of John’s legs. “I’ve hurt you too much already.”

“I’ve hurt you too, John,” He murmurs.

That gives the blonde man pause, and he tentatively nods. “Yes, you have.”

Sherlock bites his lip, looks away to stare at the ice crystals on the window pane. John’s fingers gently guide his face so that they’re steadily gazing at each other, lips tight in a worried smile.

“It’s both ways, Sherlock. There’s no blame to be placed on either one of us, okay? But, we can’t— you can’t—” He sighs, gathers his thoughts and then says, “We can’t just. . .  not talk about it, right? When we hurt each other, we have to let the other know. Otherwise it won’t— it won’t end well, okay?”

It’s quiet for a minute. “Are you still mad at me for leaving?”

“Not mad at you, really. Not anymore. I was, after you first came back. Now I’m just. . .  upset, that you were alone for two years. And that you. . .” John trails off, instead pulls Sherlock closer and runs his hands along the raised scars.

“Oh.”

“Mm. What about you?”

The answer’s on the tip of his tongue before the question even fully leaves John’s mouth. He thinks carefully about his word choice. “I was upset that you chose her.”

“Oh.” A beat, then the recognition sets in. “ _Oh._ Oh, love,” And then they’re tangled together, Sherlock’s head under John’s chin, John’s arms tightly wound around Sherlock’s waist. “I should have never— I didn’t. . .  I missed you. So. Much. And, I didn’t know how to cope with what I was feeling— hell, I don’t think I even knew _what_ I was feeling— and I thought that if I could try to fall in love with someone else it would dull the pain of losing you and never. . .  never getting to tell you.”

Sherlock stopped listening to John’s words after, “to fall in love.” His head feels foggy and he shakes it to clear his thoughts. “What didn’t you get to tell me?” (He’s genuinely confused, what does John mean when he says that—)

“Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me.” He pulls his head away from John’s chest, blinking furiously into the stare of those bright blue eyes. “I love you.”

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to say, “ _Oh._ ” He can feel that he’s physically trembling.

It seems that with that confession, John can’t seem to stop himself from saying it. “I love you. I love you so much, and I’m so sorry I never told you—”

Sherlock stops him the only way he knows how. He inexpertly presses his lips to John’s in a chaste kiss, then pulls away. “I love you too.” It’s quiet, so quiet, because if he says it any louder he thinks he will break in two.

There’s a smile after that, a bright, beaming smile kissing his own, and it’s not perfect, but it’s the best thing Sherlock’s ever experienced in his entire life.

It isn’t perfect— not yet, at least; but they’re okay.

They’re okay.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks! for reading! i appreciate you! very much!  
> leave comments and kudos they are my drugs feed me  
> okay thanks love you all bye


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